The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  "My uncle would never justify a murder. Lucinda, before you break the law, give me the gun." Alex took another step forward.

  Lucinda whirled, pointing the gun at him—and he was only five or six yards from her. "Stop right there."

  "Alex!" Jill cried, terrified that he would choose this moment to play the hero and prove himself to her.

  But he froze. Smiling—and it was strained. "My uncle will not approve of this," he repeated. "You won't get away with this," he said quietly. "This is 1999—not 1909."

  "Injustice is a fact of life. Is not Kate's death proof of that?" Lucinda replied.

  Thump, thump, thump. Jill touched her heavy heart. "Was she murdered? Someone dug up her grave recently. Was that you? Did you think to hide the evidence?"

  Lucinda's brows lifted in surprise. "I believe that was Mr. Preston."

  Jill whirled to stare at Alex.

  "Jill," Alex said. "I decided to exhume the body. But there was no body, no coffin, nothing. The grave was bogus. She was never buried there."

  Jill was stunned. "I don't understand."

  "Thatgrave's a red herring, but for the life of me, I can't think why."

  "Where is Kate?" Jill cried to Lucinda.

  Lucinda did not bat an eye. "I don't know."

  "Did Edward kill Kate?"

  "No," Lucinda said firmly. "Edward did not kill Kate. He was in love with her. Don't you know that he was never the same man after she disappeared? He grieved until his very own death. Kate's ghost stood between them, between him and Anne, for his entire lifetime."

  "Then ... who?" Jill asked slowly. She felt ill. The best of friends ... the worst of enemies. The hairs stood up all over her body and somehow she knew. "It was Anne." Suddenly she gasped. "Anne killed her—and out of guilt, or some other perverse emotion—she put that headstone there!"

  "Who killed Kate, and why, is a secret, my dear, that has gone to the grave with Kate. And it will stay buried there— for all of our sakes. Please step aside, Mr. Preston. Although I am a very good shot, I have never shot another human being

  before, and I might very well hurt you, which I prefer not doing."

  '*rm not moving,*' Alex said.

  Jill felt real terror then.

  '^You underestimate me," Lucinda said. "You see, I cannot allow William to suffer any more than he already has."

  Her words were not even finished when Alex leaped forward, at her. The gunshot sounded, a deafening blast, its sound magnified within the four stone walls of the tower.

  "Alex," Jill screamed as he collapsed.

  She was on her knees, bending over him, his face in her hands. His eyes were closed; in the darkness, his face had turned gray. And there it was, a bright red blossom on his shirt and Jill thought. Oh, God, not again! She pulled Alex into her arms. "Don't you dare die!"

  "Jill, please stand up."

  Jill froze at the sound of Lucinda's cold voice. She looked up.

  Lucinda continued to point the gun at Jill. "I am sorry," she said. "I liked Mr. Preston."

  Jill didn't think. She grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it with all of her might. Lucinda cried out in surprise, reflex-ively jerking backward. Jill launched herself at Lucinda, but Lucinda was a big, strong, outdoorsy woman, and it was like landing on a brick wall. She pushed Jill off as if she were a fly. Jill went sailing backward, landing on her back on the hard earthen floor. For an instant, she saw stars.

  As her vision cleared, Lucinda loomed over her, her expression finally furious, aiming the gun at Jill's head.

  The clarity was stunning. In that instant, Jill knew she had been a fool to ever doubt Alex. So many images and memories and hopes and dreams swirled through her mind that Jill felt a terrible and bitter regret that it would all end now, like this.

  She was too young to die.

  A shadow closed in on Lucinda from behind. Alex.

  Jill must have made a sound of surprise, because Lucinda whirled as Alex charged her. He hit her like a battering ram. Lucinda was driven backward under the force of his assault.

  into the wall. They grappled for the gun and an instant later it went off, another deafening explosion.

  They fell to the ground together.

  "No!" Jill cried, on her feet. An instant later she poilled Alex off of Lucinda. He was a dead weight in her arms. Her terror was magnified.

  "Alex," she whispered, cradling him.

  His lashes fluttered and his eyes opened.

  "Thank God," Jill cried, a sob.

  "Lucinda," he said.

  Jill jerked, her gaze slamming to the other woman, .who lay on her back, eyes wide open and unseeing. A huge red hole was in the middle of her chest. "I think she's dead," Jill whispered, stunned.

  She looked down at the man in her arms and saw his eyes were closed. "Don't you dare die," she shouted, and she kissed his head, hard.

  "Wouldn't think of it," he said.

  January 12,1909

  Water.

  Kate was desperate.

  No one had brought her water, or food, in days. It was as if she had been forgotten.

  She was dying and she knew it. It was what Anne had wanted all along. So she could have Edward... Kate's thoughts veered wildly. What did Edward think? Had he searched for her? Was the countess taking care of Peter? Peter! There was such a stabbing pain in Kate's breast as she thought about her infant son, knowing she would never lay Teyes on him again ... and the smallest anger rose up inside of her, but it was weak and faint, as she was, and overshadowed by the fear of the specter of death.

  Kate did not want to die.

  She was only eighteen.

  She wanted to live.

  Anne. Her image was always there, haunting Kate, but not as she had once known her, shy and timid, afraid to be care-

  free, but as she was now, a cruel, cold-hearted monster. Anne, who had professed to love her forever, who had so foully betrayed her. Were Anne and Edward married? Kate had no idea how much time had elapsed since her imprisonment. Clearly Anne wanted her to die very, very slowly. But the other day, it had snowed.

  Just a flurry, but the fat, wet snowflakes had drifted in through the holes in the roof, settling on the dark earth like white four-leaf clovers, mesmerizing Kate.

  Kate wanted to sleep. She was so cold, so exhausted, so thirsty, but beyond hunger, and sleep beckoned, dangerously. She was afraid to fall asleep, afraid she might never wake up. Drifting with her wildly changing, kaleidoscope thoughts was so much easier, safer.

  If only ...

  At times, Kate could see Edward so clearly, she felt that they were together, and if she had the strength to reach out, she would actually touch him. She saw him in his smoking jacket and slippers, in her sitting room, bouncing Peter on his knee. He was smiling at their son, and then he'd look up, across the room, at her. His smile changed. It warmed. The look he gave her was reserved exclusively for her, the look a man gives a woman he loves ...

  It was so vivid, so real. On some level, Kate knew she was hallucinating. She did not want her hallucinations to stop.

  Anne appeared. Cold, hateful, evil.

  Kate wanted her to go away. She wanted to be left alone with Edward and their son, she did not want to be confronted by the cold-hearted murderess.

  Light. Bright, white, streaming through the roof of the tower.

  Kate blinked in surprise. She had been so cold, so utterly exhausted. But suddenly she wasn't cold anymore, and she wasn't tired. The light wasn't just bright, it was warm, bathing the interior of the tower, bathing Kate. Where was the sunlight coming from in the midst of this gray dismal winter day? It was so bright, so clear, so pure. It was so ... calming. Kate suddenly smiled.

  Suddenly she was at peace.

  Never had there been so much peace. So much light... and so much peace ...

  Chck.

  Kate was confused. The noise disturbed her, the light began to fade. Click.

  She struggled for consciousness. The lock was turning, a
nd the tower was once again wet and raw and cold. In fact, it was so dark with shadows that she could barely see. Kate clawed the damp earth, shivering uncontrollably now, watching as the door opened, watching as Anne stepped into the tower.

  She had never thought to see Anne again. She wondered if she was dreaming. "Help me," she whispered, but then realized that she was so sick that she could not even speak, not even in the lowest, most inaudible of whispers. She could only speak in her mind.

  "Hello, Kate.*' Anne came closer, until she was standing over Kate, peering down at her. "Are you still alive?"

  Kate wet her lips. Or she tried to, but she could hardly make her tongue move to carry out the action. "Anne. Please.'' She did not want to die. Not after all. She could not die! Edward and Peter needed her...

  "You're still alive." Anne squatted, face-to-face with Kate. "You're not beautiful anymore, Kate. You're downright ugly."

  How could Anne have become so hateful, so evil? "Help," Kate whispered—or she tried to.

  "Edward thinks you left him. He thinks you ran off—with another man." Anne laughed. "Isn't that amusing?"

  Kate squeezed her eyes shut, over sudden tears, suddenly realizing that she clutched the locket in her palm. It was her last hope. Maybe, if she gave it to Anne, Anne would be jolted out of her madness. Maybe she would remember their friendship. Maybe she would have mercy on her.

  But Kate could not raise her arm to give the locket to Anne. She could not move her arm at all. The effort was monumental, and it made her break out in sweat.

  "Where is Peter? Where is he? He disappeared, damn it, Kate. I want to know where he is!" Anne cried, rising to her full height and staring down at Kate.

  Kate closed her eyes, shaking, giving up the struggle to hand Anne the locket. Peter. He was safe. And Anne would kill her after all. She was suddenly filled with determination. Her eyes opened. Her gaze locked with Anne's. She said, low but clear, 'The countess."

  Anne's eyes widened in shock. **You bitch! You clever, scheming bitch! You think to thwart me from the grave, do you not?" Anne paced, wringing her hands, furious.

  Kate collapsed once again. Speaking had cost her dearly, she had nothing left to give.

  "Edward and I have set our wedding date. For August. And I will not raise your brat," Anne spat.

  Kate looked at her. And something odd happened. The gray shadows in the tower began to disperse as more bright, pure, brilliant light streamed inside. Anne became bathed in it Kate watched her slowly disappearing, swallowed up by the tunnel of blinding light.

  She smiled. She was floating, and at peace. Death was not, she realized, so very frightening. It was peaceful and calm.

  Why had she been so afraid to die?

  Anne stared down at her. "Why are you smiling? What is so amusing? What do you know that I don't?"

  When Kate did not answer, but continued to smile, her eyes closed, Anne nudged her with the toe of one shoe. There was no response.

  "I won't let you have the last laugh, and I won't raise your brat," Anne cried. She bent and grabbed Kate's hands, about to drag her, then she paused. She opened Kate's tightly clenched palm, which felt very cold, as if she were already dead. In it was the locket.

  Anne recognized it immediately. Her instinct was to toss it aside. Instead, she paused, opening it, and saw the portraits of two so very young, so very naive, smiling girls—the best of friends.

  Oddly shaken, she snapped it closed and slid it into her bodice, beneath the coat and dress she wore. Then she shoved any remorse—and regret—aside. Was Kate dead?

  Anne knelt, placing her hand beneath Kate's nose. She seemed to be breathing, but barely.

  She dragged her across the floor of the tower and outside; It continued to flurry.

  Panting, Anne continued to drag her toward the manor, which was boarded up now. When she came around the side of the house, gasping for air,^she finally paused, releasing Kate. If Kate wasn't dead yet, Anne decided, she would be, soon. In the daylight, Anne finally took a good look at her. Not only was she emaciated and ugly, she looked very much like a corpse. Edward would not think her beautiful and enchanting now.

  The doors to the root cellar were open. Anne didn't hesitate. She pushed Kate's body over the edge, and heard her land with a thud on the earthen floor below.

  She closed and padlocked the doors. Then she walked away from Coke's Way, across the street, to the chapel, where she'd left her carriage in the drive.

  And deep in the root cellar, the darkness was complete.

  January 15, 1909 Dear Diary,

  It has been some time since I last wrote. I have just returned from another trip to Stainesmore. My last and final trip there, I suppose. For I surely will not allow Edward to go there when we are wed. The memories for us both would be far too awkward.

  It is done. Kate is dead. I have seen so for myself.

  Mother and I have never once discussed our secret. That is for the best, as there is not much to say. I do think Mother is in awe of me. But there is little 1 can do about that. I do not think she ever really believed I would become the next countess of Collinsworth. I had not a doubt.

  The wedding is now scheduled for August. All of London is talking about the affair, labeling it the grandest union of our times. I am so excited. I can hardly wait.

  Twenty-Seven

  J

  ILL CUT THE LAMBORGHINI'S ENGINE BUT LEFT THE HEAD-

  lights on. They shone directly on the front door of Staines-more and the huge, night-blackened windows of the ground floor. The entire stone mansion seemed to be cast in darkness, which was very odd—and very disturbing. At night, lights were always left on. Where was the staff? And wasn't William, and possibly Margaret, at home?

  Alex sat beside her in the passenger seat, head back, eyes closed. It was close to midnight. Jill had never been more exhausted, but bed was the last thing on her mind. Lucinda was dead, and had been taken to the morgue in Scarborough. She had driven to Coke's Way in the Sheldons' Mercedes sedan, because the car was still there, parked in the driveway in front of the manor house. Alex's gunshot wound had been treated at the Scarborough Hospital. They'd both given statements to the local police.

  She looked at him, dreading going inside. To her surprise, his eyes opened and he smiled very faintly at her. She had thought him soundly asleep.

  He looked like hell. His face remained a ghastly hue of gray, there were dark circles under his eyes, not to mention a day's growth of beard. The upper right side of his torso was bandaged, his right arm was in a sling. There was dried blood all over his shirt and pants. "You look like a drug dealer," Jill said, hoping to lighten his mood. When what she really

  wanted to do was to pull him into her arms and weep. Not for herself, but for him.

  He laughed. The sound was brief, but genuine. Then he sobered. 'T feel like shit. Those^ainkillers suck."

  Jill winced. "You were supposed to take two."

  *T need to think," he said, staring now straight ahead at the front door of the house.

  Jill wondered what awaited them inside.

  Alex suddenly reached for the door with his left arm— he'd been shot in the right shoulder, and that arm was now useless—grunting, "Let's go."

  Dread filled her. Jill killed the headlights and got out of the car, shutting both of their doors for them. All she could think of was the fact that WilUam was inside of the house, probably alone. She felt certain that Lucinda had been his passenger, not Margaret, although perhaps she had not seen a third passenger in the car. But did that make him Lucinda's accomplice? She could hardly think straight.

  "Let me help you," Jill said, taking Alex's left arm so he could lean on her as they approached the house.

  "You didn't tell the cops about the cat, the ransacking, or the brakes."

  Jill's heart began to thud. Slowly. Painfully. "No. I did not."

  , "You said Lucinda came after you because of your research into Kate's Ufe, period."

  "I know
what I said," Jill replied, tense and strained. They paused at the front door, eyes locking. "Lucinda helped me at first. But when the ugliness started to emerge, she became unhinged. Insane."

  "Shit," Alex cried.

  "Oh, Alex, I'm sorry," Jill cried back. "This is all my fault!"

  He flung her a look that was pained, angry, and resigned all at once and stepped inside his uncle's house.

  The foyer wa§ cast in absolute blackness. It had stopped raining hours ago, a few stars had managed to creep out from behind thick clouds, and shadows seemed to dance across the

  room. The huge entry was achingly silent. Jill's tension increased.

  And with every painful beat of her heart, she prayed that William and Margaret were not involved in the threats made against her, in the assault on her life.

  Alex cursed and pounded the wall switch, flooding the foyer with light.

  Jill's eyes widened. William sat in one of the thronelike, velvet-backed chairs against the far- wall, unmoving, his face absolutely ravaged with emotional distress.

  "Uncle William."

  William stared, and then he stood slowly, showing every one of his years, his hands shaking. "Lucinda. Where is she? Dear God, she's been gone so long!" And his gaze swung wildly from Alex to Jill and then to Alex again.

  He was in love with her. Jill stared in shock at William, who was beginning to cry.

  And suddenly she began to understand.

  As Alex went to him, putting his good arm around him and begging him to sit back down, William lost all control and began to weep openly. Jill's mind raced. Margaret was so elegant, so beautiful, how could this be? But then, love was a strange and odd thing, wasn't it?

  And then she thought about Edward and Kate. Was it the fate of the CoUinsworth men to fall in love with women they could not marry?

  "Uncle William, something terrible has happened," Alex said hoarsely.

  He looked up. "She's dead, isn't she?"

  Alex inhaled.

  Jill realized then that William had not once asked after Alex's welfare. Like a metal stake, pain stabbed through her breast.